Spread with tears.

You're sick,
so sick, I need to retch.
though you don't seem to have noticed.
I don't see how though,
sounding as you do.

I know, and I'm only on the damn phone.
And god knows, it took you long enough
to pick up.

Curled in the hallway by the table,
knees up and spread with tears
awash, and dirty faced.
Same clothes I'd say at a guess,
when I meet you again
with a firm hug I wish I hadn't.

You make tea and drop the mug
and still haven't told me,
though I already know.
Poor bastard; some months at most
but your hair's still intact.
You'll look good
in that goddamn coffin.

Flowers everyday.
tulips and daffodils,
and roses and carnations.
prime rib and beautiful on the grave,
my dear.

Softly gone in a choked goodbye I'd say,
but it's a guess, and it's only a guess
when I hug you like you're real.
I haven't seen you in years,
or it feels like it, you bastard.
I do hate you so, but you're dying.